


Wolf's Teeth

by MissFaber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Background Braime - Freeform, Bondage, Consent is Sexy, Dark Jon Snow, Dirty Talk, Emotional Porn, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flogging, Jon is a professional dom, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sansa is a submissive, Spanking, Wax Play, a bit ooc I guess? how "in character" can this setup get, alysanna, background alysanna, dominant submissive relationship, that's alys and lyanna you plebes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21523699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: “Come with me.”He’s too close—his breath washes over her, the spice of rum. His crow’s wings are gone, his shoulders bare, the silky bulk of them so exquisite she feels it in her knees.“Come with me, lovely. I’ll take care of you,” he promises, the words black. “I’ll ruin you.”Sansa wants to believe she’s normal. But that’s completely obliterated when she meets “the Crow” in the dark of the most exclusive sex dungeon of New York City—and finally, deliciously, submits.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 38
Kudos: 133
Collections: JonsaWeek2019





	Wolf's Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> :) here we are... I've been writing this Dark Jon smut fic since September on and off, because all my other fics are such slow burns and I needed to write these two banging it out. (In the filthiest way possible). My motivation to finish it and post was fitting it to Jonsa Day 5's prompt, _Wolves._ Also, if you're here for the porn, that's next chapter— this one is mostly setup.
> 
> [check out the photoset for this fic](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/189232385866/wolfs-teeth-a-jonsa-bdsm-smut-fic)

_I’m not weird,_ Sansa tells herself as she turns on her laptop. _I’m completely normal._

She isn’t a shut in, she isn’t socially inept, she isn’t unemployed. Not that there's anything wrong with those things, Sansa tries not to judge, but _she_ isn’t any of them—she is normal. Successful, even. Far enough in her career to earn begrudging respect from those who doubted dreamy, soft-spoken little Sansa could hold her own in the cutthroat corporate world. Making enough to afford an apartment that isn’t a glorified closet. She is making it in the Big Apple—the first (and only) time she called it that, Daenerys had laughed at her and pet her head in an infantilizing way, calling her _sweet little Midwestern girl._ And that’s what Sansa is—sweet, the apple of her parents’ eye. A _normal_ woman. A completely normal woman who’s just gone on a below average, but not awful, date. _Nothing’s more normal than that._

Grenn, his name was; a man Alys, her assistant, knew from college. Alys reassured her he was smart, kind, employed, and handsome— perfectly normal. “A unicorn,” she joked, and Sansa flushed to her toes as she thought of the other meaning to that term. In the end Sansa agreed to the date because she hadn’t gone on one in months, and she was too scared to try out online dating. And because New York in the fall was _gorgeous,_ and she allowed herself to fantasize about a date like the one in the movies, where her savvy partner would order for her, claiming he knew the menu better, all “trust me, baby, you’ll love this.” Then he would show her a hidden gem of the city, or two, and the night might end by a fountain, where he’d sweep her off her feet.

Sansa shakes her head. It doesn’t make sense that she’s such a romantic while also wanting…. _this._

_I don’t_ really _want it,_ she reminds herself, harshly. _I just like to watch._

The evening was perfect, warm enough to wear the jewel green dress she loved most, with the occasional pleasant breeze rifling her hair. She felt like a cross between Audrey Hepburn and Meg Ryan with her dress swishing around her knees and her silk scarf knotted tight at her neck, blowing in the breeze behind her. That was where the extent of her fantasy met reality. There was nothing _wrong_ with Grenn, who was everything Alys promised, as well as mild-mannered and polite enough to get the check. But Sansa already knows she isn’t going to see him again. And that’s alright. That’s _normal._

The apartment is dark, and the glow from the laptop screen makes her squint. She made a beeline for the window seat as soon as she walked in, not even bothering to take off her shoes— strappy high heels that made her feel fabulous but that she instantly saw made Grenn feel emasculated. She was already tall for a woman, and the frown he covered a moment too late as she approached the bistro where he was already seated was only slightly less depressing than his frown when she didn’t invite him in—even though he walked her home, as he pointed out. _Chivalry isn’t dead,_ she thinks wryly as she enters the URL at the top of the screen.

She jerks her gaze away a second later, when the website loads, a screen of black with little flesh-colored windows, portals to other worlds she can glimpse in her periphery. She isn’t ready. She flexes her toes in her shoes, again and again, until she feels them tingle. They’re a size too small—an expensive but off-the-mark gift from Daenerys on her last birthday, which Sansa suspected Daenerys was only aware of because Alys slipped her a memo. They came with a gift receipt, and most women would have exchanged them. But the part of Sansa that likes to watch likes this, too.

 _Maybe she knows,_ Sansa thinks, absentmindedly running her fingers across the straps and the flesh they constricted.

But she can’t know, because there is nothing to know.

Most people are curious, aren’t they? Especially in a place like New York City. Sansa’s experienced, _metropolitan._ She fits right in.

She clicks on a video she’s seen before. She likes to start out this way when she does this, when she lets herself do this—to ease herself in. A lie, a charade she holds for herself. She doesn’t need to be eased in. She’s hungry, voracious, her eyes wide on the bright screen, watching the paddle in the man’s strong, taught, veined fist. Watching the red mark bloom on the olive toned swell of one previously unblemished ass cheek.

Her grandmother liked to bake bread, and Sansa would sit on her knees in front of the oven, waiting for the bread to rise in the pan. This reminds her of that.

(A connection so twisted she’d reel at it, if it was the first time it occurred to her.)

Sansa doesn’t _actually_ want to be beaten with a paddle, or held down by ropes or straps or sheer muscle—the thought makes her shudder, actually, makes her feel afraid. She doesn’t like feeling out of control, feeling unsafe. So what if she’s knotted the silk scarf she wore out tonight so tight around her neck it’s almost biting, a constriction she felt every time she took a breath tonight? She didn’t _actually_ want any of her previous partners to do this to her. _Because they weren’t right,_ an inner voice whispers, and Sansa has to agree with that.

None of her boyfriends were right—in fact, they were absolute shit. It took her years to be able to admit that, years of Arya pushing and one year of intensive therapy after Joffrey, and so Sansa shouts the phrase in her head. _Absolute shit boyfriends._ She’s earned it.

She could count the number of times she was able to reach orgasm with a partner on one hand; and every one of those times, the partner couldn’t exactly claim credit. “Harry couldn’t find a clit if it was big as a dick,” Myranda said once—a friend from back home who had the misfortune of dating Harry too, and at the time the words had made Sansa laugh and blush at the vulgarity. Until she found out they were true. And Joffrey… well, Sansa’s glad she never told him about her secret desires. There was something about the way he treated people sometimes, a fuse that blew at the lightest slight, real or imagined. There was the way his hand held her arm too tightly to lead her, one time so tight when he wanted to leave her parents’ house on Thanksgiving that he’d left bruises. There was that cut of cruelty in his eyes. She was right not to trust him. She shudders as she thinks of the liberties Joffrey would have taken if she’d told him she wanted to be roughed around a bit in the bedroom. He would have seen it as permission. He would have hurt her to hurt her, not to please her.

_I’m not weird._

She’s curious, that’s all—she watches. And yes, the videos would be called disturbing by some, a thought that always crashes over her when she’s done, souring the whole experience, making her irrationally want to drag the laptop into the shower with her, as if to cleanse it, too.

But it’s _not_ disturbing—she’s not hurting anybody. She’s just watching. So what?

So what if she occasionally ventures into some videos on her favorite BDSM website? So what if she _has_ a favorite BDSM website—one she pays for? It’s under control—Sansa only allows herself to watch once every two weeks. _Besides, it’s good to pay for porn,_ Sansa thinks, remembering the impassioned speech Daenerys gave one night about paying sex workers directly. _I’m downright charitable,_ she thinks, except she can’t think so clear anymore, because she’s been slick since she decided it would be one of _those_ nights on her walk home, before she even sat down and propped the laptop open on the teal pillow by her lap. _So what if nothing gets me wet like this?_

She pulls the hem of her dress up slowly, agonizingly slow, feeling the delicious drag. The man in the video doesn’t let the woman cum—she isn’t allowed. The thought of that, of being denied, makes her clit throb.

 _I’m not weird,_ she thinks again, frantically this time, as she rubs her thighs together to alleviate the tension mounting there. She’s just… unsatisfied.

* * *

Denial is a powerful hindrance, so is the desire to be normal, and Sansa never would have found herself at Wolf’s Teeth—all black velvet walls and musk, and Jon—were it not for the combined efforts of Tyrion, Jaime, Alys, Daenerys, and Arya.

* * *

On Saturday night, Tyrion features as a surprise guest at the dinner she usually has with Jaime and Brienne, a near monthly ritual. Not that Tyrion is unwelcome—he’s the reason her best friend found love, after all— but he _is_ her boss, and although he’s the best boss she could ask for she always finds herself stiffening just a tad when she’s around him in social settings. She’s sipping at her wine distractedly when she realizes they are talking about clubs, Jaime and Tyrion— having a pissing contest about who’s been to the most exclusive club. A moment later she realizes they’re talking about sex clubs.

“This is inappropriate,” Sansa mumbles, then repeats herself louder when she realizes only Brienne heard her.

Tyrion emits a sound between a cough and a snort of laughter. “Yes, Sansa, jump in and save my brother from certain defeat.”

Jaime bunches his nose at her. “He’s such a sore loser,” he mock whispers.

“I think I win!” Tyrion slams a fist down on the table, cheeks ruddy. “You’ve never been to Wolf’s Teeth!”

Jaime leans back in his chair, rolling his eyes but smiling. “It’s not my thing.” 

Meanwhile Brienne looks like she wants to bolt out of hers. She’s grinding her teeth again. With the two men locked in their little contest, Sansa’s the only one who’s noticed.

“Don’t judge.” Tyrion wags a finger with his free hand; the other is refilling his wineglass. “I know it’s a fetish club, but you’d be surprised.”

Sansa’s gone completely still at that— _fetish club_ —and she hopes no one’s noticed. She doesn’t think so.

Jamie’s still shaking his head resolutely. “Never been into that whole _thing,_ whips and whatever. And you’re being generous calling it a club. It’s a dungeon.”

 _Dungeon._ It’s a word she’s familiar with, fantasized about. It sends a thrill down her spine.

“Here, here.” Tyrion fishes something out of his pocket and slides it across the table. “That will get you in. Both of you.”

Jaime picks up the card and holds it in his fingers for a single second before Brienne shoves it out of his hand, sending it skittering across the table. _“No.”_

Jaime opens his mouth in mock outrage, then smirks when Brienne’s stern expression doesn’t change. “No. We are not going to a _sex club._ Thanks but no thanks, Tyrion.”

“Guess those days are behind me,” Jaime mutters, grinning at his brother, who gives him a knowing look.

Tyrion shrugs and takes the card back, flipping it between his fingers for a moment. “Do you want it?”

He has turned his body to her, he's looking at her—yet it takes Sansa a minute to realize he spoke to her. That he is offering the card to _her._

“Oh no… I can’t…”

“I think it’s a great idea.” Jaime’s eyes are glittering in a way that suggest mischief, and in the end it’s easier to shove the card in her wallet than to keep fighting with the brothers.

She has no intention of ever using it, of course.

For the rest of the dinner she avoids Brienne’s direct gaze, afraid her closest friend, who knows her so well, would see the thing she’s tried so desperately to hide.

* * *

On Monday morning she’s standing in the space between Alys’s desk chair and her desk, leaning forward and down to relate the experience in the quietest whisper she can manage. She expects Alys to laugh or to be appalled, not to clap her hands and exclaim, “You should go!”

Sansa stares at her assistant and lifesaver. Alys is one of her closest friends and yet sometimes she is struck by how much _younger_ she is, how untouched by things like the shame and propriety of a Midwestern Catholic upbringing, how free. Today she’s in another sharp pantsuit, this one slate gray. The first time Sansa saw Alys outside work, she was shocked to see her in a loose but extremely short paisley print dress that resembled an old curtain in both pattern and shape. “Oh, yeah,” Alys said in response to Sansa’s expression, and up close she saw the rings of electric blue and violet around her eyes. “I wear Lyanna’s suits to work.”

That night, Alys had invited her to something called an I FEEL party, which Sansa never actually made it to once she realized it was spelled in all caps and that everyone was doing molly. Instead she holed up in Alys and Lyanna’s dark apartment with Lyanna and a collection of old movies, in a silence that only became companionable after the third hour. Taciturn and old fashioned, Lyanna was the polar opposite of her fiancé. Alys was a ball of energy who spent more than half her waking hours with her nose inches away from a device that looked too big to be a phone and too small to be a tablet. Too much time had passed, and Sansa was embarrassed to ask what it was.

Alys Karstark was Sansa’s first friend in New York, an infinitely important person to her, but she is _not_ going to convince her to go to a sex club.

_Sex dungeon._

“You’re missing the point,” Sansa hisses, mindful of her volume and their coworkers mingling about. She’d rather die than be overheard talking about this. “Isn’t it weird? Kind of inappropriate?”

Alys shrugged. “Tyrion gave you the card because you were _there,_ it was a pity give.”

“So, not inappropriate?”

“It’s not like he asked you to go with him. Besides, you guys are like, friends, right?”

Sansa’s fingers curl around the sharp edge of the desk. She _needs_ someone to tell her this is nuts, absolutely crazy, that it’s absolutely fucking _crazy_ that she has an access card to Wolf’s Teeth in her wallet this very moment.

A glossy black card, thicker and heavier than a credit card, with a grey drawing in precise lines of a wolf baring its teeth. Sansa turned the card over and over in her hand the night before, testing its razor-sharp edges with the pad of her finger, wondering if she could actually prick herself.

(The thought of drawing blood made her so wet so fast her head spun.) 

“It’s probably crazy expensive,” Alys is saying now. “Look it up. If a place like that even has a website. Anyway, you _have_ to go.”

“No!”

“Sansa!” Alys groans. “If you don’t go you better find out how much that thing costs and sell it for double.”

“Fine. Yes. Good plan.”

“No! That was meant to be discouraging!” Alys throws her hands up as if thoroughly exasperated. “Look, you said the date with Glenn was ‘good’, and while I deeply appreciate that you’re too polite to tell me you fucking hated it, this could be what you need. Something fun! Mix it up!”

“I’m not going alone. I mean, even if I had someone to go with, I wouldn’t go—”

“Well, look, if I wasn’t lowkey married to the most straight edge person ever, I’d go with you.” Alys looks at her mystery device for a moment. “Hey, if you can’t get anyone else to go, I’ll ask Lyanna. Maybe she’ll be cool with it.”

“Not necessary.” The press of the edge of the desk into her fingers starts to hurt. Sansa pushes harder.

“It’s a _sex club,"_ Sansa reiterates. “Did you miss that part?” Just as Sansa has gotten to know Alys, her friend also knows her. Alys _knows_ that Sansa doesn’t do things like this. It’s why she set her up with Grenn.

_That’s not you._

“A sex club that _Jaime Lannister_ said is too much for him,” she adds.

Alys waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, I get it, Tyrion’s a freak.”

“He’s harmless,” a third voice interjects, and Sansa knows before she turns that it’s Daenerys.

She’s standing rim-rod straight behind them, a file clutched to her chest, her brow arched. She looks amused. “So. What are you talking about?”

“A sex club,” Alys answers unashamedly, while Sansa tries to fight the itchy blush crawling up her neck, the one she gets when she’s really, _really_ embarrassed.

Daenerys’s eyes sparkle. _“Oooh._ Do tell.”

“Nothing to tell yet, I’m _trying_ to convince Sansa to go.”

“Oh.” Daenerys’s eyebrows rise in obvious surprise as she shifts her attention. “Sansa. I’m shocked.” She leans in, as if to give the artificial smile an air of intimacy. “And impressed. What’s the club?”

“Wolf’s Teeth.”

Daenerys steps back, every hint of a smile gone. _“You_ got invited to Wolf’s Teeth? However did you manage that?”

“She got a card thingy,” Alys answers before she can, and Sansa sends a silent wave of gratitude to her friend for her vagueness and the total exclusion of Tyrion’s involvement.

Daenerys pulls at the sleeve of her blouse, a hint of unraveling Sansa’s never seen, and a childish part of her sort of enjoys seeing it. _Am I a sweet little Midwestern girl now?_

“Can I see it? The card?”

“I don’t have it.” The answer comes quick and undeniable. To reveal that the card is in her wallet, to pull it out, is a vulnerability Sansa’s utterly unprepared for.

“Well,” Daenerys says, heels already clicking as she walks away. “Look forward to hearing all about it.”

_Oh, god._

“This is your nightmare,” Alys theatrically whispers as soon as Daenerys is out of earshot, and Sansa silently raises one index finger to her temple and pulls the trigger. 

* * *

On Wednesday night, Sansa is on the phone with Arya when she realizes her sister somehow _knows._ Arya’s begging to be her plus one to Wolf’s Teeth—a strange and slightly thrilling position for Sansa to be in, who isn’t used to having anything Arya’s interested in.

“I have the next few days off, I miss Robb. It’s perfect. I want to go partying!”

“I should warn you,” Sansa feels centered, confident the following words would change Arya’s mind. “It’s a sex club.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How the hell does everyone but me know about this place? I was under the impression it’s some super exclusive secret.”

 _“It’s_ exclusive, not the knowledge of it. It’s super hard to get into, so it’s like, fucking legendary.”

“How’d you hear about it?” Suspicion suddenly strikes her. “Have you been there, Arya Stark?”

“No, Mom! I met this guy who said he works there. Well, I hope he still works there. This guy is so hot, Sansa, fucking _huge,_ and his _hands—_ ”

“Alright, alright!” Sansa cuts in. “So, let me get this straight. _He’s_ the reason you’re coming?”

“Caught me,” Arya says, but she doesn’t sound caught at all, she sounds positively gleeful.

“You’re driving from Boston… you’re driving _four hours_ to see this dude?”

“You’d get it if you saw him,” Arya says breezily, and Sansa feels a spike of jealousy at Arya’s nonchalance. Why does she care about everything so much, turning every little thing over and over in her head until it’s too worn to be recognized? Why can’t she be _lighter?_

“Don’t tell Robb,” Arya says, jerking Sansa from her self-deprecating thoughts.

“I’m not telling him, I’m not an idiot,” Sansa huffs. Her stomach swoops when she realizes she’s just agreed to go. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I’ll be at your place at ten on Saturday night.”

“That’s too late.”

“It’s really not.” She could see Arya rolling her eyes through the phone. “This is gonna be _epic,_ Sans. See ya!” 

* * *

Naturally, Sansa does some research that night. She tries to resist—she lasts until 3 A.M, jittery from nerves and coffee, anxious about having to be at work in less than five hours. _Once every two weeks, Sansa._ That’s the rule. And Sansa loves rules. She loves to obey. She wants to be a good girl.

It’s that thought—the words “good girl” whispered in her ear by a low, commanding voice— that breaks her.

She tries to justify what she’s doing by telling herself she’s not looking at porn. She’s just preparing herself, because everything’s going to change on Saturday; she’s sure of it, it's a throbbing underneath her skin. Even if nothing happens at Wolf’s Teeth besides a few drinks and some looking, she will be _there,_ physically, and it will change her.

So she devours the Bondage Discipline Sadism Masochism Wikipedia page—laughing a little incredulously when she realizes she didn’t know what it stood for until then. Some words don’t do anything for her, come close to turning her off—golden showers, infantilism, tickle torture. But others… _wax play. Flogging._ The image of a collar, blood red and sleek leather, makes her squeeze her thighs together. She learns about safe words and consent and aftercare. She opens new tab after new tab until the top of her browser is a row of tiny teeth, and she refuses to close any of them, she absolutely won’t, doesn’t think she _can—_

When she slides her hand into her panties she shudders, a full body spasm, horrified and thrilled by how wet she is, how good it feels, and how has she lasted this long without touching herself? She cums quick, a few strums of her clit and she’s gone, her mouth opening on a silent scream.

 _I’m normal,_ Sansa tells herself weakly half an hour later, after showering and lying down to sleep, a futile motion. But the words have lost all their power, if they had any. On Saturday she will be in Wolf’s Teeth, and she has a strange feeling that no semblance of normal will survive the night.


End file.
